


Packing

by BranchingSprout



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comedy, Fluff, Hiking, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranchingSprout/pseuds/BranchingSprout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has like 424 books on his belt in canon and I was never given an explanation, so I made one. Feat. a hike to camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Packing

**Author's Note:**

> This should all be pretty straight forward for the most part. The inquisitor is Postit Lavellan and this is set a while after everyone is settled in Skyhold, for all intents and purposes.  
> Art of Postit and Dorian (Post-Fic, but no spoilers) here: http://lolipoptiger.tumblr.com/post/138004553249/dorian-has-like-424-books-on-his-waist-on-his  
> Edit: Fixed a formatting issue with the dialogue, sorry about that!

           The Inquisition was a reestablished organization; an organization that could be described and summarized by listing nearly every antonym to the word poor. Necessities were easy to come by because of this. If you wanted a horse, you could have ten- or one gilded, if that suited your tastes better. Be it a dracolisk, a druffalo, a nuggalope, it was all free game. But there was not a druffalo, so hairless, of minimal stature, and tightly packed with goods as the inquisitor.

           For some reason, the inquisitor didn’t borrow the necessities for his outings. He could take a nuggalope with him at all times. Hell, he could take half the stable without a pip in his direction. But no. Here he was: scouting to the next camp with a haul of weapons, armors and trinkets packed to his back so tightly, you could hear it crick and crack his spine with every heavy step he took. The rucksack on his back could have carried an army of moderately sized children, in both weight and girth; instead it carried a bunch of tchotchkes.

           And he didn’t stop, not even when there was a break in hostile wildlife. Meandering to their destination, he’d continue to walk, pause briefly, pick a plant that surely not him nor anyone else was in need of, toss it on the top and continue on. Note: when this is done once or twice, it is odd but understandable. When it is done upward of 10 times within an hour, it is obnoxious to most people. To the other people, who have been fighting bears, demons, and the steep paths of the Hinterlands it was not obnoxious. Instead, it was aggravating, agonizing, exasperating, antagonizing and a hundred other synonyms that would infer that with every fist full of elfroot gathered, was a step closer to a face full of a fist full.  

           At this point, the party was at varying stages of frustration and denial that this was still happening. Cassandra, bless her heart, was dealing with it internally. If you looked closely, you could see her strong jaw clenched and unmovable, and her fingers firmly wrapped around the hilt of her sword. Grounding. Preventing her from breaking into a mood that was more aggressive; passive or otherwise.

           The Iron Bull, would not be here if he were not being payed, and though a large sum was owed to him, no sum seemed large enough for him to put up with this. He could be carrying the entirety and more of what was making the inquisitor do these awkward stumbles for common herbs. Though he himself was a man of… occasional over indulgence, this was ridiculous. He hadn’t stopped following the qun even a week and this damn kid was going to drive him hand over fist into fabled madness. All over some dirty leaves. He attempted to keep this to himself however, focusing his irritation on kicking stones out of his way dismissively, if not aggressively. (This nearly caused him to fall on his ass several times as the gravel shifted under him.)

           Dorian was handling the stop-start rhythm with more interest and less composure than the others, however. Like a child who is learning about object permanence but unbelievably enraged by the complexity of the concept, he observed the contemplation on the inquisitor's face grow deeper every time he decided to stop for yet another plant. But the elf grew slower and slower, damning himself dirt clump by dirt clump. Dorian felt his upper lip sweat with the shear force of not lashing out, to see if the duck would continue and drown itself as it looked up into the rain.

           It all ended when the inquisitor started doing some weird squat walk to try and finish the trek.

           “Enough,” surprisingly it wasn’t Dorian but the Iron Bull who spoke up first. He stopped abruptly and turned to the inquisitor behind him. The inquisitor just appeared… inquisitive, mid-squat. Bull ran a calloused over his own, gnarled face.

           “Why do you need all of that, Boss?”

           “Why not?”

           “It’s like four times your size.”

           “If that’s a short jab it’s not a very good one.”

           “I hear your back more than the leaves crunching on the ground. Throw some of that crap away.”

           A pause.

           “But I need it.”

           “You really don’t though.”

           “Do you know how much some of this stuff is worth? When I get back I can pawn it- and make some decent profit,” he stood taller from his squat at that. No doubt in his head he saw himself as a cunning businessman, taking the reigns on yet another monetary opportunity.

           The Iron Bull sighed.

           “Just throw away something cheap and heavy and we can go. Surely you have something like that? You’ve picked up nearly everything we’ve come across so far,” Cassandra interjected.

           Before Cassandra could continue, the inquisitor hefted his shoulders spitefully and a shield fell off the back of the bag, clanging against the ground and shaking like a tossed coin. Silence. He shifted, and leaned one way. Plate armor broke from its rough, twine ties against his pack; when he leaned another way, a battle axe made it’s home wedged in the damp ground. Every poorly crafted item that hit the ground created a more intense look of bitterness on the inquisitor’s face from both the holdup and squandering of his mobile “goldmine”.

           “Ok, ok. You’ve made your point,” Dorian chided sarcastically, mildly amused at the childishness of emptying his clown car of a bundle.

           The inquisitor, squared his shoulders at that, kicked-- missed… kicked once more and scooted a gauntlet out of his path before starting to walk again. Much to the pleasure of others, his gait evened out from it’s weird squat but was no less heavy footed. At least it was tolerable now. The inquisitor made his way past everyone, leading spitefully quickly with his nose in the air. If he would have turned back around, he would have caught The Iron Bull mouthing a tired thank you to Cassandra.

           Dorian didn’t hustle to follow after the inquisitor, however. As Postit bolted on ahead, he briefly glanced over the dusty, fallen goods that were indiscriminately discarded. Amongst the heap were the expected: bloodied weapons and battle gear looted from foes of all forms. But peaking out from under a battered quiver, was a basic, if not well kept journal. The metal of the corner protectors was polished to shine, and the dark leather that covered its thick pages was surprisingly free of dirt. Out of place.

           Cassandra paused, noticing Dorian’s absence from her back, cautiously. As he brushed away the quiver to grab the unmarked book, she cleared her throat loudly. He jumped slightly to himself, at that, quickly pocketing the book into a gap in one of his belts.

           “Are you coming?” She demanded more than asked, raising an eyebrow.

           Dorian opened his mouth to make a dismissive comment, but closed it, thinking better of it. Instead, he moved to go on ahead, rubbing his brow as he passed and breathing out a ‘of course’ or something similar. Cassandra eyed his waist as he passed; his free hand hovering around a odd lump in his intricate mess of belting.

           Eventually, he made his way up to just behind Postit. Dorian tapped the back of his hand against his arm and leaned over slightly. “Remind me to show you something when we get to camp,” he requested, conversationally. He did not get a response however, and was about to repeat himself before Postit nodded minutely. Oh, so he was doing _this_ now.

           The rest of the walk was in silence. There was nothing more than the sounds of heavy boots clunking against damp ground and the occasional really bad joke from Bull, followed by a snerk from the inquisitor and groans from the others. When they did get to camp, there was barely a greeting before they all went to their respective tents. Bull stooped into a tent that was prepared for the chargers. Cassandra was eventually coaxed to a tent with some of the camp supervisors, after a oddly calm debate (Which she lost.) on how she should be keeping an eye on Dorian. Dorian and Postit were ushered to share a tent in the end; maker knows how. Not that anyone cared or payed any mind; they just wanted to get off their feet at this point.

           Postit, more than others, needed a break after hauling so much junk around. He pushed the tent flap from out of his way, and held it briefly so Dorian could catch it. First thing first, get the bag off.

           Postit looked around the tent briefly. The dim light shining through the heavy beige fabric outside didn’t light much, but it was enough. The ground appeared matte as he walked to the opposite side of the room; meaning these tents had been up for a while for the ground to be dry. He turned his back to the only table like thing in the room, a flat topped trunk shifted into the corner, and tried to ease the bag on top of it.

           “Do you have that?” Dorian asked as he watched the elf struggle to stand on his toes and wiggle the bag onto the trunk. “You’re going to end ass first on the ground if you do that.”

           “I got it,” he replied, not entirely paying attention. Dorian slung his staff out from around his back and propped it up against one of the poles of the tent. He warned him.

           And the prophecy fulfilled itself; except when the bag rolled off the narrow surface, Postit didn’t land ass first. He landed, back on top of the bag and knees bent to have feet on the ground: like an overturned tortoise. A really miffed, less wrinkly overturned tortoise. Dorian hummed a chuckle to himself.

           “Now, I do remember someone telling you so, at some point. I just can’t put my finger on who it was,” he commented absentmindedly to himself, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He looked around the tent for a place to spread his stuff out.

           “Auughh,” was the irritated response, though it was hard to tell if it was directed at the fact that he was wiggling his arms free from the bag or because of Dorian being, as he would put it internally, a fucking ass.

           By the time that Postit righted himself and was roughly brushing himself off (As if the fall had just ruined his image so much.), Dorian was already leaning his toppled bag up. He sifted through it until he came across a couple bundles of furs and set them out to lay on after patting any dust out of them. Postit just crossed his arms indignantly. “What is you wanted to show me, you…” he started.

           “You?” Dorian stood and stepped behind Postit’s left side so if he wanted, he could see him out of his peripheral.

           “You…” He said like he was going to go on, nodding his head slightly.

           “Was there an end to that?” Dorian inquired with what could only be described as a poorly suppressed, shit eating smirk.

           “I forgot, alright!” Postit huffed, laying his irritation on thick.

           “Mhm, of course. I think you might have also forgot this,” Dorian retrieved the pristine journal from his side and placed it into Postit’s hands. He could see his eyes widen immensely as his fingers tightened around it and pulled it away. He watched as he turned from him to open it and leaf through the pages quickly, his mouth gaping slightly. “You’re going to catch flies like that you know.”

           “How did you- where did you get this?” He asked, looking up from the pages at Dorian while his fingers continued to feel through it.

           “I found it in that heap you left in the forest. From what I can see it didn’t belong there,” he motioned to Postit, who was feeling the worn edges of pages that had been flipped through time and time again. “Obviously.”

           “I dropped this there?” Postit’s eyes darted to his bag then his book. He looked less angry at this point, more like he just tripped over a nug who would no longer look him in the eye in betrayal.

           “Yes, as I said,” Dorian crossed over and sat on the chest, crossing his legs. “Did you actually find that though? It looks like it was taken from the library back in Skyhold it's so polished. Well. My section of the library, at least.”

           “No, I,” he started again, making a little finger gesture between Dorian and the book and then snapping it shut with one hand. He rubbed his free hand along his jaw, deep in thought as he stared past it at the ground. “I brought it… You actually went back for a book?” he asked, squinting over at him. Scrutinizing.

           “I think we’ve already established this a few times, yes,” Dorian said, starting to tire of the same questions over and over, wanting answers. “If it’s so important you really should take care of it better. Put it _inside_ the bag, or leave it back at Skyhold.” He offered, leaning back on his hands.

           “I like to have it close though,” he mumbled more to himself. He could feel Dorian looking at it now. He paused. “Can you carry it for me?”

           “Right now?” Dorian asked.

           “No,” Postit turned to him and took a few steps in his direction. “Later, I mean. When we go to close rifts or scout.”

           Dorian began to speak but Postit cut him off, “I know I carry everything else, that’s fine but it’s the problem. I can’t keep it safe and where I need it if I’m carrying it. There’s too much stuff.”

           “Oh really? I never noticed,” Dorian uttered softly, glancing to the bag.

           “Dorian, I’m serious.”

           “As am I,” he countered.

           “You care about books more than anyone I k-... almost anyone I know,” Postit caught himself.

           “You’re joking. Who here cares about books more then me, honestly? Honestly,” he remarked defensively.

           “Varric,” Postit offered.

           “Varric?” Dorian said stalely.

           “He writes them, I mean that takes a lot of care,” He answered, surely.

           Dorian sighed loudly, “I suppose.”

           “So will you do it?"

           “I have been known to do _it-_ ”

           “Dorian, I swear. Will you carry the damn book?” Postit demanded, his mouth in a tight line from trying not to laugh and remain stern.

           Dorian stood up and grabbed the book, surprisingly gently, and waited for Postit to let go before he moved to add it to a “offical” clip on his belt. “I’ll carry the 'damn book'. But watch out, it might hear you if you keep calling it names like that.”

           “Yeah, yeah,” Postit rolled his eyes, watching him clip it to his belt.

           Dorian pecked his cheek when he was finished. “You’re welcome.”

           “AUGGHhhh,” Postit groaned over dramatically and lean-swooped to the side after. He flapped a hand at him dismissively, a silent ‘oh stop, it you.’ Dorian just chuckled to himself as Postit stooped down to his bag to get his own bedding out, which was, of course, not a ploy to hide his blush.

           Dorian sat on his own furs that he layed out previously, his back propped against a tent pole as he watched, amused. “Why is this book so important anyhow?” He mused, patting the cover of it to make sure it was still there.

           “You didn’t look through it?” Postit looked up at him, surprised.

           “As curious as I might be, it’s not mine to look through,” He assured.

           Postit nodded to himself, pulling some thick, yet small bundles of skins from his bag before closing it. “It just is, I guess. It’s a good thing.”

           A good thing? What was that supposed to mean. Free of blood magic and not depicting detailed deaths of innocent people kind of good? Written well, good? Good luck?

           Postit, noting the confusion on Dorian’s face as he smoothed out his furs into a bed, elaborated: “We are going through serious shit almost every day, correct?” Postit offered for him to follow along. Dorian nodded. “And it keeps going. And going. And going. And going-” Dorian made a ‘get on with it’ motion with his hands. “Correct?”

           “Correct.”

           “So… It’s less serious with that. Like a… uh…” He snapped his fingers a few times, staring at Dorian’s shoulder like it would finish the sentence for him, “happy place, I guess?”

           Dorian nodded to himself, glancing down at the book quietly.

           “It also has a bunch of stuff in it- I mean of course it has a bunch of stuff, it’s a book,” he was getting lost as he was talking, noticing Dorian looking at it. “But like, note stuff. Design stuff, reminder stuff… Note stuff,” he trailed off, pursing his lips. “I’ll show you what’s in it later.”

           Dorian looked up at that, quirking a brow, “Why not now?”

           “Because,” he stated, before clarifying: “I want to finish it. There’s some stuff in it I still need to do.”

           “Very specific,” Dorian smiled to himself. “That’s fine though, I can wait.”

           “You wont look at it before hand right-” Postit started then reasserted what he said. “Don’t look at it before hand.”

           “I won’t, I won’t,” he said, raising his hands in mock defeat. He took a peek at Postit who was not buying it. “I promise,” he insisted looking him in the eye, still smiling.

           Postit stared back for a moment, firmly, before breaking and looking away with a small smile. “Alright. It’ll be worth it though.”

           Dorian was about to reply before someone knocked lowly on the flap of their tent. “Food’s warm if you're hungry.” they said in a gravelly voice. Varric probably. Postit, called back that he heard and stood, stretching out his back and popping it.

           “Come on, it’ll get cold,” he commented, holding out a hand to help Dorian up while the other remained stretched in the air. He took it and stood, looking behind him at the back of the tent, then to the side where the new book was now strapped.

           Dorian clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a small nudge. “Go on, I’ll be out in a minute.”

           Postit looked him over briefly before nodding and heading out of the tent, glancing back as he did.

           Dorian paused for a moment, waiting for the tent flap to close before he took the book from his belt. He ran his hand over the cover, tracing the spine and the worn, dingey pages. He stopped over where some of the pages rippled. Almost without thinking, he put a ward over it. Something told him this needed it: to be protected. No one would notice the ward, or no one should, at least. But books are delicate things, so if he was going to take care of it, he would do it well.

           He clipped the book back onto his belt, so his cloak draped over it with it’s soft, heavy cloth, and went out to join the others.

           He promised.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, criticisms and requests are appreciated! Feel free to point out any mistakes if any were made.


End file.
